


Performance of a Lifetime

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acting, Actor Stiles, Actors, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Appearances Can Be Deceiving, Awkwardness, B-Movies, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bisexuality, Coming Out, Expectation vs. Reality, Flirting, Hidden Depths, Hidden Talents, Hollywood, Humor, Interviews, Journalism, M/M, Manipulation, News Media, POV Derek Hale, Romantic Comedy, Seduction, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is exactly the kind of talentless actor that Derek Hale, an award-winning entertainment reporter, holds in contempt. An interview with Stilinski, however, reveals hidden depths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance of a Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this GIF-set](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/100576802486/ca-mi-lla-is-he-having-eye-sex-with-the) of Dylan O'Brien apparently giving a reporter bedroom eyes.

* * *

 

Stiles Stilinski was the most ridiculously named movie star Derek had ever interviewed, and that cartoonish name, along with Stilinski’s string of B-grade teen romance movies, led Derek to expect inane answers to his in-depth questions about acting.

Derek’s editor—who also happened to be his domineering elder sister, Laura—had insisted Derek ask questions that weren’t as pretentious as his usual fare, and that he focus on Stilinski’s notorious sense of humor and his playful, spontaneous approach to an otherwise soulless film industry.

What bloody use would that be? Derek hadn’t become an entertainment reporter to spout the same brainless garbage as everyone else. He respected the art of acting, and he covered national and international theater, independent films and foreign-language masterpieces. He hadn’t won his awards for covering the sorts of throwaway movies Stiles Stilinski acted in, and he had no patience for shallow, attractive golden boys who couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag.

Granted, Stilinski’s acting was... bearable, but his roles were so vacuous as to induce migraines in discerning viewers, and Derek couldn’t fathom why Laura was so fixated on Derek “chilling out” and “learning to have fun on the job.” Derek had plenty of  _fun_ , thank you very much. He had more fun reporting on Tom Hiddleston’s latest reinvention of Shakespeare than he did being dragged around the set of a Halloween-themed crowd-pleaser whose script—or lack thereof—was peppered with boorish, off-color, slapstick comedy.

Which was the movie Stilinski was currently acting in, playing the part of the hormone-driven teenage hero.

Resolved not to be won over by Stilinski’s famously dancing eyes and mischievous smile, Derek allowed himself to be escorted to a tented area adjacent to Stilinski’s trailer.

Lydia Martin, Stilinski’s manager, was surprisingly refined, flawlessly clad in designer clothing, with her heels clicking sharply as she walked. She delicately implied that she hoped Derek’s interview of Stilinski might help the young star break out of the box he’d been put in.

“Stiles would prefer exploring more… meaty roles,” Ms. Martin said. “He personally instructed me to contact your magazine and arrange an interview. With you, specifically.”

Derek goggled. “He reads  _The Thespian_?”

Martin shot him a knowing look. “He isn’t what he appears to be. Give him a chance.”

Right.

“There he is,” Martin said, stopping and nodding toward the trailer. “Text me when you’re done, and I’ll lead you out of the set. You might get lost, otherwise. Bye for now!”

So saying, Martin departed, leaving Derek to his own devices.

Stilinski was sitting in a lawn chair outside his trailer, his body language totally relaxed, legs crossed loosely. He sat up slightly when he spotted Derek approaching, looking Derek over from head to toe, pausing at Derek’s leather jacket and his calf-high boots.

“Well,” Stilinski said, smirking. “ _Well_. You’re definitely everything you’re rumored to be.”

What? What did that mean? “Aren’t there more rumors about you?” Derek flashed back to Laura force-feeding him articles about Stilinski, including ones that insisted Stilinski was in a risqué polyamorous arrangement with fellow Hollywood darling, Scott McCall, and Kira Yukimura, McCall’s girlfriend.

Stilinski grinned brightly. “Rumors of my depravity have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Have they?” Derek surveyed Stilinski skeptically; the brat really _was_ too pretty for his own good, and a mouth that obscenely soft and full was bound to have been used by a series of directors, producers and co-stars. While Derek did not generally put much stock in seedy gossip columns, the gossip about Stilinski was consistent with Stilinski’s sheer, deliberate sensuality. “I was hoping to chat with you about your approach to acting, actually.” _To humiliate you, if nothing else_.

Derek’s tone might’ve been too blatantly challenging, because Stilinski raised an eyebrow. His easy sprawl on his chair somehow turned into a quietly predatory repose, and a peculiar glint entered his sly, heavy-lidded eyes. “Really?” he said indulgently—invitingly, almost. “Hit me.”

Derek took a seat on his own lawn chair, opposite Stilinski. He was somewhat unnerved by Stilinski’s transformation, which made Stilinski seem less like an arrogant, wayward youth than an experienced, justifiably confident craftsman. Which one was the reality, and which was the illusion? Clearing his throat, Derek launched into his pre-prepared questions, calculated to stymie upstart actors like Stilinski.

But Stilinski fought back like a champ. He got every single reference to cinematic history, down to the precise dates, including obscure bits of knowledge about the origins of cinematography. He offered thoroughly educated opinions on Hollywood’s unfortunate traditions of sexism, racism and homophobia.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to officially come out as bisexual,” Stilinski said, smoothly, and Derek nearly dropped the tablet on which he had been taking notes.

“Wh-what?” he asked, stunned. “Why now? Why with _The Thespian_?”

Stilinski smiled at him pityingly, and Derek fought not to scowl in reaction. “Because, as a queer person, I have an even greater responsibility to speak out against the unfairly uneven ratio of straight romances to non-straight romances. Representation is important.”

“Of course it is,” Derek blustered, “but don’t you star exclusively in those very straight romances?”

“I’m going to change that,” Stilinski said. “And I knew that if I came out to _The Thespian_ , it would be taken seriously, rather than as random speculation by a less respected periodical.”

Derek wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or used. Or both. “Do you have any particular projects in mind?”

“Yes, in fact, I do. The indie director, Chris Argent, has an upcoming supernatural thriller about which he will shortly be making an announcement. I’ll be playing a minor supporting role as a queer character. Perhaps that movie will change my audience’s perceptions of me, as an artist and as a human being.”

“Are you happy to be playing a minor role after playing the protagonist in such a large number of—” _substandard, horribly written_ “—high-grossing, successful blockbusters?”

“I want to express my creativity as an actor,” Stilinski said. “There’s something electric about it, about becoming someone else so completely. It’s exquisite, cathartic, intense. It’s an alchemy of the soul.”

Derek stared. His breath caught at the faint blush in Stilinski’s cheeks, the conviction in his voice. Stilinski _meant_ this. He meant it honestly and absolutely, and Derek was abruptly certain that the title of his piece would be “An Alchemy of the Soul,” and that it would be more flattering than he had initially intended.

After a few moments passed without Derek saying anything, Stilinski blinked, returning to his blithe, self-assured charm. “Did I break you, Mr. Hale?” He looked amused. “I _had_ wanted to impress you, but I hadn’t wanted to break you beyond repair.”

“You haven’t broken me,” Derek said, hoarsely, trying to figure out why his heart was pounding like a war-drum, and why a palpable flush was steadily creeping up his neck, heating his face. “I’m not a toy.”

“You’d make a very nice toy,” Stilinski said, his lips curving wickedly.

Derek’s flush was getting hotter than a goddamn fever. He stood suddenly, sliding his tablet into his back-pocket and holding out his hand. “Thank you for your time,” he said, stiffly, and stifled a gasp when Stilinski rose as well, slowly and gracefully, utterly unlike his customarily flailing characters.

Stilinski was far too close, his gaze far too dark, his hand far too warm as it gripped Derek’s. “It’s been a real pleasure, Mr. Hale,” he said, leaning in until he was whispering in Derek’s ear. “More than you know.”

Derek startled backward, hating how awkward he was, and how poorly coordinated his limbs were.

Stilinski was once again grinning that bright, infuriating grin.

“You might be too skilled an actor,” Derek groused, accusingly.

“I’m not planning to hide my light under the bushel of conventionality much longer, never fear.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.” Derek cursed himself for how that sounded like a compliment instead of a criticism.

“My agent has your phone number, doesn’t she?”

“And your point is?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering if you’d mind my giving you a call.”

“Why?” Derek demanded, suspiciously.

“To discuss the article you write, obviously,” said Stilinski, his eyes wide and innocent. “I don’t often get to talk about my art the way I got to talk about it, today. With you.”

“Uh-huh.” Derek didn’t trust a chameleon like Stilinski as far as he could throw him, but he couldn’t deny that watching Stilinski’s acting career develop would probably be the most interesting thing Derek would experience as a reporter, for years, perhaps decades. “Do what you want.”

“I will,” Stilinski said, like it was a promise. Or a threat.

Derek flushed even redder. He whirled around and left, and did, indeed, end up getting lost on the set before he remembered to text Ms. Martin.

 

* * *

**fin.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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